Crows

Sri Lal Crows i. I come from nowhere, and I have nowhere to go, I tell the crow perched on a low neem branch beyond the Periyar River. He agrees. He and I are free. We speak the same language. You know who I mean. He eats the garbage you and I toss aside— the endless sacks of rubbish hauled down to be burnt at the water’s edge, like a secret in the dark. ii. I have seen smoke plume like the crown of peacock feathers my blue love wears. Garbage burns beside the river, but I dream that he woos me with white champa bloom. His hands are like the water on my skin. Still, some nights, the fire of rag and bone rises so that even the crow cannot sing for the smoke. Some nights, the blaze chafes my throat, and swallows the sky whole. Some nights of jasmine bloom and sweet rice, I am mute in the face of love. iii. So many crows, some say— the erratic caw, and I remember cities far north, where monkeys climb the temple walls. They swing and chatter like a mind that longs for enough gold to buy an unbruised freedom, like flesh and bone that hunger for a gentle touch in the night. Wherever we are, some cry carries us away from ourselves— the voice of a crow, an unquiet mind, the cremation ground where a father’s beatings go up in smoke, or the bronze tongue of the temple bell that calls good souls to prayer. iv. This saffron hour before dusk, a small silver mallet tunes the tabla— knocking dowels up and down. Soon, bhajan will rise beyond the firepit beyond the wisping smoke of jasmine and sandalwood. I have not yet washed clean from hauling garbage. I stand beyond the stone-pillared hall, by the big tub sink, run cold water across my arms. A crow alone sees me, in a way most men do not see the lesser sex. We are outsiders, he and I. His call is full of longing, and I answer back beyond the liturgy of temple rite, the cry from my own throat a song he understands, my small mouth open like red lotus before dark. Published in Doubly Mad